Binici and Gregor had scored two large rooms above a packaging company. They formed the first and second floors of the building, linked by a single wooden staircase. Both rooms were light and high-ceilinged. Both had a large steel-framed central window, metal divides running between smaller panes of glass. On the first floor, many had been smashed, keeping the temperature bearable, but the ancient glass on the second floor had, miraculously, stayed intact. Out of range maybe. As a result, it was an oven. All the floorboards were scuffed, deeply grooved, and in places covered by battered rugs and blankets. Hundreds of flies and a sharp, pungent smell suggested dead rats hidden beneath. Floor one had some stacked wooden tables and chairs, floor two had two piles of mattresses. There was no kitchen. The only toilet was off the stairwell.
Binici, as sweaty as Hari had ever seen him, clapped his hands. ‘Citizens! Gather, please! We have history to make.’
Hari shuffled forward. Tattoos stood to his right, Kamran to his left. He smelt Collins behind him, felt her brush against his shoulder. Gregor leant against a wall. The rest of them gathered round Binici like he was some old street preacher handing out salvation.
Binici’s eyes were glowing. ‘Tomorrow we make history,’ he said, making sure he made eye contact with each of them in turn. ‘For the comrades, citizens, brothers and sisters who, through the long years of struggle, would have died for the opportunity we will be given, we will strike hard. The work is heroic. The work is ferocious. But the work is glorious.’
Stump speech, thought Hari. He watched his fellow citizens. Revolutionaries or mercenaries? he wondered.
Binici was into his stride. ‘We have rejected the twin errors of sectarianism and opportunism. We are the vanguard,’ he declared, ‘a revolutionary base camp to collapse this nation and build a new one. Tomorrow we can jump-start the revolution.’
Kamran and Red Head applauded first, everyone else joined in.
‘We embrace the butcher!’ called Binici. ‘We change the world!’
Applause from everyone now. Hari started his clapping on ‘butcher’ just to be sure he wasn’t left behind.
Binici checked his watch. ‘Finally. Three things now. Food and drink are on their way. Final training in an hour. And we need to move the van from outside. It advertises our whereabouts, obviously. There’s a large multi-storey across the way.’ He threw the keys at Hari. Hari caught them. ‘You and Sara, please. Be quick but be careful. Park it away from the ramps. Watch for the fash.’
Hari drove the Transit, Collins rode in the passenger seat. She held on to the seatbelt strap as he swung the van around the roundabout. ‘Steady as she goes, citizen. We don’t have to be that quick.’ Hari took it down some revs. He hadn’t noticed his speed. He steered on to the service road that ran past the hotel, slowing as they passed its revolving front door. A striking woman with a head of blonde curls and a plain man in drab clothes were just leaving. He kept the van at five miles an hour all the way into the gloom of the multi-storey.
58
THE GROUND FLOOR was full. The first and second had a few spaces. Hari carried on up to the third. Just the one car was parked up, a black Volvo sat in the far corner. He went to the opposite end, tucked the van behind a pillar. Much like the Volvo had done. Hari killed the engine. Neither he nor Collins moved. They both stared at the concrete wall in front of them. This is it then, thought Hari. When I walk back into that warehouse, it’s a killing party. He could hear Collins breathing heavily. He wondered if she was having second thoughts.
‘It’s going to be knives,’ she said.
‘Oh?’
‘Binici told me. Gregor told him.’
‘I see.’ Hari felt sick.
‘The day before is the worst,’ she said, still staring out of the windscreen. ‘Doubts. Nerves. Fear.’
‘How do you know?’
A long pause. ‘Zak told me.’
Dead Zak.
‘So you … haven’t done this before?’
‘No. But this is my path, Hari. When I was seventeen I met Anna Mendelssohn. You know her?’ Hari shook his head. ‘Member of the Angry Brigade. Anarchist. Communist. Went to prison for trying to set off bombs in the early seventies. They targeted Cabinet ministers, judges, civil servants, police, prison officers, big property companies. These people are the enemy, Hari, and you can’t get rid of them by voting. You get rid of them by fighting. She was clear-sighted. She knew what had to be done. She was consumed with a passion for revolution and was prepared to kill for it. I am too. Binici might be a prick but he’s right about the butcher. The Angry Brigade knew that.’
Hari stayed silent.
Collins undid her shirt. Hari gripped the steering wheel. What are you doing?
Above her left breast was a tattoo of an automatic rifle clasped by two hands. The first hand was circled by the gender symbol for woman, the second hand by the gender symbol for man.
‘It’s the Angry Brigade logo,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ said Hari.
‘Seen it before?’
‘No. Well, maybe in books. Not … in the flesh as it were. Sorry, I didn’t mean—’
‘You’re fine. Don’t worry.’
Collins left her shirt unbuttoned.
Hari couldn’t believe what was happening. Collins had been consistently cold to him. Always belittling, occasionally cruel. He forced himself to look away. Back to the concrete. There were cracks running through it like a river delta. A meandering line of rust-coloured residue ran from top to bottom.
‘Have you heard of terror sex?’ she
